


Though we cannot make our sun stand still

by acaramelmacchiato



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Dante abuse, Gen, Roleplay, the play's the thing wherein we'll teach everybody to get laid, treville's school of 17th century sexting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-09
Updated: 2015-04-09
Packaged: 2018-03-22 00:31:46
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,325
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3708601
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/acaramelmacchiato/pseuds/acaramelmacchiato
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Filling 2 kmeme prompts, both about how to use the noble art of roleplay to help your friends figure out their relationships. Chapter 1, "Aramis attempts to take d'Artagnan under his wing and teach him everything he needs to know about the art of romance." Chapter 2: Treville decides to take his show on the road to the king.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> prompt from the meme: Aramis attempts to take d'Artagnan under his wing and teach him everything he needs to know about the art of romance.
> 
> Then I went in for the bonus points: 
> 
> Bonus points if Aramis abruptly gets frustrated with d'Artagnan's lack of finesse and swaps roles ("I'll be you. You're Constance now") and kisses d'Artagnan with absolutely no further warning.
> 
> More bonus points if, despite all of this, it's completely Gen.
> 
> Further bonus points if Treville walks in on the scene and casually ignores it.

  
D’Artagnan was distraught, which was not uncommon and nine times out of ten improved his footwork.   
  
Athos caught him on the tenth, and would have put his buttoned rapier through d’Artagnan’s eye had he been a less accomplished fencer. As it was d’Artagnan flinched to the left, very late, as Athos interrupted the motion of his own flèche and put himself badly off balance.   
  
“I beg your pardon,” said d’Artagnan, and reached down to help his friend upright.   
  
Athos invoked a plague on the whole of Gascony before he took d’Artagnan’s hand. “Kill yourself at the peril of someone else’s reputation, next time,” he said, catching his breath.  
  
“I am sorry, and I have begged your pardon,” said d’Artagnan. “I am distracted. Love, as you know -- ”  
  
“I do not know,” said Athos, archly. “And consequently my fencing is matchless. Think upon it.”   
  
Aramis, who had been watching from the stairs, laughed at this. “Do not think upon it too long, or you will end up, I am sorry to say, in the sad condition of our friend Athos, whose meager pleasures we have all just observed: le combat _corps à corps_ , _la fente_ , and  _l’estoc_ ,” here Aramis paused to note, with satisfaction, that Porthos was laughing.   
  
Athos did not respond to them. Instead he stripped off his gloves, put a hand in his hair, and sat down.   
  
“Tell us what the trouble is, d’Artagnan, and let us advise you,” said Porthos.  
  
“Constance,” said d’Artagnan, and then shook his head. “Madame Bonacieux. Has told me only this morning that my suit is unwanted. Therefore I am unwanted, I cannot hold myself in higher esteem than she does, and so I am bitterly unloved, the most wretched of mortals, and the sorriest.”   
  
“So speaks a man with friends,” said Porthos, but he could not entirely conceal that he found d’Artagnan’s speech very funny.   
  
Athos, however, nodded. “Heartbreak is the natural end of love; the soul having recalled beauty, is condemned to disappointment.”   
  
“Athos,” said Aramis, “has all the monotony of a Platonist, with none of the idealism. Tell me, d’Artagnan, for there is hope for you at least, with what words did Mme. Bonacieux refuse you?”   
  
D’Artagnan looked sadly at his hands. “She called a plague on Gascony, and she turned very red, and denied me breakfast.”  
  
“It is a good thing you have left home,” Porthos observed, “the region has been cursed twice before noon.”  
  
“And you take this for refusal?” said Aramis.   
  
“Of course I take it for refusal,” said d’Artagnan. “It is.”  
  
“What had you asked her?”  
  
“To run away with me,” said d’Artagnan, his face betraying that he had hope in the dream still, “fly with me to Gascony, and live on the farm, milking the --”  
  
“Before breakfast?” Aramis lifted his eyebrows. “For one thing, that is an extremely discourteous hour. For another, you proposed not marriage, not even a proper episode of _amor cortese_ , but _Gascony_?”  
  
“You should not have proposed Gascony,” said Porthos gravely.   
  
“Never. Talking to your mistress, or indeed to a woman you admire in any capacity at all, is a courtly skill you lack, d’Artagnan, and I tell you in all the generosity of friendship that you reflect sadly on the rest of us. We will return you therefore to school, at no cost to yourself.”  
  
D’Artagnan looked at his gloves. “I beg your pardon?” he said at last.   
  
“Imagine, for the moment, that I am your beloved Mme. Bonacieux, and you, as you are, d’Artagnan.”  
  
D’Artagnan squinted. “I am finding it difficult,” he said.   
  
Porthos laughed. Athos put his chin on his hands, watching with interest.  
  
“Pretend,” said Aramis, but for verisimilitude he removed his hat.   
  
“I don’t really think I can,” said d’Artagnan.  
  
“You wretched provincials,” said Aramis, “are perfectly content to picture good Parisian women milking the many goats of Béarn, but you cannot even for your own betterment comprehend a fellow soldier in the role of your mistress!”  
  
Porthos, at this point, was laughing so hard that he had to sit down.  
  
“I am trying,” said d’Artagnan, and the situation as well as the full attention of his friends made him blush.   
  
“Was it not Don Quixote,” said Athos, using the flat tone he employed to joke, “who said that we must remember love and war are the same thing?”   
  
“Exactly so,” said Aramis. “Therefore address me as you did this morning, only do not mention goats, or marriage, or anywhere south of Tours.”  
  
D’Artagnan coughed, and looked to Athos and Porthos for help, and finding none, faced Aramis and spoke in a quiet voice: “Constance, I can stand it no longer, fly with me to -- to -- beyond Tours, possibly south, and we shall make a quiet life together, a life of innocent love, milking the -- on a farm, anyway. There, I have said my piece, what is for breakfast?”  
  
Aramis lifted his eyes to heaven. “Did you wish her a good morning?”  
  
“I thought you were playing a role!” said d’Artagnan, offended.   
  
“Well, you were right, it is difficult. Try again, and this time with sincerity and immediacy. Put it to her, or rather me, with your hat in your hands, that you are very much in love with her and desire to know if she loves you also.”  
  
“I have no hat,” said d’Artagnan. “I cannot pretend two things at once.”  
  
“Use mine, then,” said Porthos, and tossed it over.   
  
D’Artagnan pressed it to his heart. “Constance, I am most ardently in love with you.”  
  
“Say why,” suggested Athos.   
  
“If Porthos will stop laughing at me,” said d’Artagnan.   
  
Porthos refused.   
  
“I do not have a week to wait while you find your words, sir,” said Aramis, without even the most vague affectation of his role.   
  
“I love you for your -- eyes,” said d’Artagnan. “And your kindness. As I think you know. I admire you greatly. There is little I cannot learn from you, except perhaps what you can learn from me. I hope it is not ungallant for me to ask you, do you love me also?”  
  
“Possibly,” said Aramis. “You had a weak start. Try again, and say less.”   
  
“I am most pitifully in love,” said d’Artagnan, trying to affect a poetic stance. “With you, that is, Mme. Bonacieux, what is to be done?”  
  
Aramis smiled slowly at him. “Is it not commonly said? Love, and do what thou wilt.”  
  
D’Artagnan grimaced. “Constance would never say that.”  
  
“Mme. Bonacieux,” Aramis corrected. “And what a pity, I’ve heard that one quite a lot.”  
  
“Have you?” said Athos.   
  
“In religious circles,” Aramis confirmed.  
  
“Perhaps an abbreviated version,” said Porthos. “On your way out. So you are not waiting there in the hall while she decides.”  
  
“I admire you very much, Mme. Bonacieux,” said d’Artagnan, “in fact I am utterly in love with you. I will not ask you now if you love me also, for I must be away!”  
  
“ _Quanto in femmina fuoco d'amor dura --"_ Aramis started to reply.  
  
“ -- Constance does not speak a word of Italian,” said d’Artagnan. He had been acting his part with such earnestness that he had dropped to his knees, with the hat still held over his heart.  
  
He was rising from this position when a voice he feared about any other carried from the railing above them: M. Tréville’s.   
  
“It seems Aramis, more than d’Artagnan, is the problem,” said M. Tréville, commanding their full attention before he had even spoken two syllables.   
  
D’Artagnan dropped the hat into the dirt, and lurched up from his knees.

 

* * *

 

 

“Gentlemen,” said M. Tréville, descending the stair, “switch parts.”  
  
“But sir,” said Porthos. “You will rob d’Artagnan of a role for which he has prepared all of his life -- that of d’Artagnan.”  
  
Tréville crossed his arms. “He is doing a poor job of it, if he fails to put himself in the position of his mistress. Aramis, have you a passable Gascon accent?”  
  
Aramis bowed deeply. “Passable, sir, for parody, I can place an  _à de trop_  as well as any man.”   
  
“Do so, then, and answer to the name d’Artagnan,” Tréville instructed him. “D’Artagnan, imagine yourself the lady honored to be the object of your admiration, deplorably though you express it. Begin again!”   
  
“My dear Mme. Bonacieux,” said Aramis, with instant obedience, “are you busy this morning? It is I, d’Artagnan, on an errand to inconvenience you, for I have it in my mind that you and I shall join a commune of cheesemakers at the bottom of the world this very day. What say you, madam?”  
  
D’Artagnan scowled. “That is unfair,” he said, “on two counts, first that I did not put it to her so indelicately and second that I make myself understood far better than you imply.”  
  
“I disagree, he does d’Artagnan about as well as d’Artagnan does,” said Porthos.  
  
“Though he might find a middle ground between  _gasconisme_  and  _gasconissimo_ ,” observed Athos.   
  
“Middle ground is antithetical to the temperament of the region,” Aramis said with a sniff, and turned to d’Artagnan. “And you, madam, what say you? Does the cheesemaking appeal?”  
  
D’Artagnan stood in the courtyard trying to picture Constance’s face, and how she had looked so disappointed -- the emotions of others were often obscured to him by the violence of his own, and he typically thought them as much of a mystery. But Constance was not a woman of such giddy passion. Her reactions were considered, and sometimes dissembling. But what reason had she for anything other than straightforwardness with him?  
  
“It is not,” he frowned, thinking hard, “it is not decent to put it to me so -- you are selfish, sir, to think we are capable of equal frankness?”  
  
Athos was nodding, and Porthos had raised his eyebrows. Aramis, still exaggerating his role as d’Artagnan, was finding things to slouch against.   
  
“ _Sapientia prima stultitia caruisse_ ,” said Tréville, with evident approval. “Now switch again. D’Artagnan, you will apologize. Aramis, when it is appropriate, you will accept. Back at it, gentlemen,” he said, and turned back up the stairs to his office.   
  
“The plot becomes difficult to follow,” said Porthos, confidentially, to Athos.   
  
D’Artagnan, now that he began to conceive of specific wrongdoing on his part, was eager to put an end to this episode. He got to his knees.   
  
“My dear madam,” he said. “I am not often critical of my own actions,” he paused when he heard Porthos and Athos laughing. “Shall I continue?”  
  
“By all means do so,” said Aramis. “If you cannot properly address a woman while your comrades laugh at you I fear we shall have to commit you to monastic life.”  
  
D’Artagnan scowled. “Constance is not so snide.”  
  
“And yet,” said Aramis, “here we are.”   
  
“I apologize for my actions, and pray you will forgive me. I shall in the future consider you before all things, and your feelings before my own, and be cognizant of your position. I shall use myself to advance your dreams and never make you a pawn in my own.”  
  
“And what of Gascony?”  
  
“You shall never see it unless you desire to, just as you will not see me unless you desire to, and I shall never compel you to milk anything.”  
  
“Very well, I forgive you,” said Aramis, with a briskness that actually did evoke Constance. “Stand up.”  
  
“Thank you,” said d’Artagnan, and stood. Aramis took him by the chin.   
  
“You make a welcome change from my husband,” said Aramis, close enough that d’Artagnan could feel his breath on his lips. “M. Bonacieux, I am certain, would not kiss me now.”  
  
D’Artagnan stood still with shock as Aramis then leaned forward to kiss him. It was on the cheek, as befitted a married woman, and seemed to cause his friends no end of amusement.   
  
“You must react less like you have been struck by lightning to Mme. Bonacieux,” said Aramis. “Or you will undo all our hard work and she will murder you.”  
  
“You kissed me,” said d’Artagnan.   
  
“We bear the hardship equally,” said Aramis.  
  
"The beard," said d'Artagnan.  
  
Aramis pushed him away. “Now begone, and apologize to Mme. Bonacieux, saying nothing of our intercession.”  
  
In a second d'Artagnan was out of the gate and on the street.  
  
“May the lord grant him chastity and continence,” said Athos, when he was out of sight.   
  
“But not yet,” said Aramis. Porthos had not yet stopped laughing. 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. "The soul having recalled beauty..." this is like Athos's Sad Drunk School of Platonic Epistemology  
> 2\. That afternoon it rained frogs in Tarbes  
> 3\. Love and do what you will is Augustine i'm sorry to drag you into this Augustine  
> 4\. "Quanto in femmina..." from Purgatorio.  
> 5\. "an à de trop" from Les gasconismes corrigès which is pretty strict about what is de trop  
> 6\. "Sapientia prima stultitia caruisse" is Horace. Tréville definitely sees his role here as "drop a cool latin quote and leave everybody awed"  
> 7\. "Chastity and continence" Augustine is the patron saint of this fanfiction idk


	2. Vaster than empires and more slow

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tréville takes his show on the road.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt 2: Treville, figuring he's on a roll, drags everyone to the palace like 'Louis I'm here to solve your marital discord with role-playing--okay, Athos, pretend you're the queen...'

M. Tréville called them to do a favor on behalf of his old friend, Charles d'Albert, the Duke of Luynes. It was a favor that Tréville called urgent, and so he brought them directly to the palace.

 

It did not, it turned out, pertain either to the safety of the king or indeed the safety of France, although, M. Tréville argued to Athos outside the presence chamber, it did so rather indirectly.

 

“Yes, alright,” said His Majesty King Louis XIII, when M. Tréville explained his purpose, “I do this because I like you, though, and not because I support turning your regiment into a theater troupe.”

 

M. Tréville bowed. “Your Majesty,” he said. “I assure you that while we are not in the habit of this method of instruction, I have observed it to be effective. A trial of a conversation.”

 

“I think I understand,” said Louis. “It is the same manner in which you drill at swordplay to get the skill of it.”

 

M. Tréville bowed lower, and drew his right leg back in unsoldierly deference.

 

“Exactly so, Your Highness. Athos, if you please, his majesty would like to address you as his queen.”

 

Louis was the only one who laughed. “Athos, you say! An exercise for the imagination, indeed,” he said, still laughing. “How shall I start? Madam, may I do you the courtesy, as your lone equal at this court, of informing you that you are sporting quite a respectable _royale_?”

 

The room was silent. “Oh, give in, you may all laugh, it was very funny,” said Louis, and they did.

 

“Less haughty, if you please, Athos. You’re only the queen,” said M. Tréville, and Athos endeavored visibly to make his natural expression something less arch and more ingenuous.  “I think it will go better if we set that stage, to use the vocabulary, a bit better. Being that Your Majesties are so rarely alone: Porthos, be a friend to your king, perhaps des Réaux. Aramis, we will call you the Duchess of Luynes, and d’Artagnan you shall be the Princess of Conti.”

 

Louis lifted his head at that; he did not like the Duchess of Luynes and cared for everyone to know it.

 

“I know well Your Majesty’s feelings about the lady, but it is a good bet that she will be present.”  


“Truly, she scarcely leaves my wife’s side, they are always in confidence together, I tell you, it is infuriating.”

 

Aramis, hearing this, put himself at Athos’s side. D’Artagnan followed him tentatively.

 

“I shall impersonate Your Majesty’s loyal advisor and friend, the Cardinal Richelieu,” said M. Tréville. “Now, begin!”

 

“Good morning,” said Louis to Athos.

 

Athos bowed low. “And to you also, who are by the grace of God, _Rex Christianissimus_ of France and Navarre, and,” he added hastily, when M. Tréville glared at him, “my beloved husband also.”

 

Louis lifted his eyebrows, but no one was stopping them. He turned to Porthos. “Des Réaux, what say you and I have a game of tennis this afternoon?”

 

Porthos nodded his head, as he had seen des Réaux do in the King’s presence. “I should enjoy that, Your Majesty.”

 

“Excellent. I will have it arranged. You must not win, though, you have won twice already and I think it is not entirely the proper form. Richelieu, what say you to tennis?”

 

M. Tréville folded his hands. “Perhaps you might invite your lady wife?”

 

Louis dismissed the notion immediately. “She cares not a bit for tennis, my loving queen, especially in the heat. She thinks it aggressive, which I call very droll, for France is a nation beset by troubles, and at all times we are at war.”

 

“Stop for a moment,” said M. Tréville. “Did you see how the queen would then have parted company with you? This went very well if our aim had been to compel my lord des Réaux into tennis, but I think it was not.”

 

“Very well,” said Louis, with good humor and patience. “We shall try it again. I say I do not think I shall tire of this soon.”

 

They resumed their places.

 

“Good morning, my love, and you also, Louise Marguerite. Madame de Luynes, hello. Tell me, my beloved Anne, will you go to bed with me tonight? I find myself quite _nagged_ about it on all sides.”

 

Athos opened his mouth, then closed it again, and did not speak.

  

* * *

 

 

“I think the king and queen are having some trouble in their marriage,” said d’Artagnan later, to Constance. He had been staring at the table in some shock.

 

She rolled her eyes. “Aren’t we all.”

 

* * *

 

Twice in two days the king summoned Richelieu to the garden to try out some conversation for his wife.

 

“Sire,” said Richelieu on the third such occasion, “I had hoped we could discuss Grisons.”

 

Louis let the smile fall from his face, and pressed onward: “I will discuss it if you wish, _mio bene_ , if it will please you, tonight alone with you in your bed --”

 

“I am myself again, Your Majesty,” said Richelieu, with annoyance plain on his face. He had been trying to discuss Grisons for three days.

 

“Yes, well you can see how that isn’t helpful. You see I have no difficulty conversing with you, as well you know. The trouble is with the queen.”

 

 It was then than the queen herself appeared, quite suddenly, walking with her ladies in the garden. She greeted her husband sweetly and with deference, and the confusion written on her face made it clear that she had overheard them. She cast a quick glance at Cardinal Richelieu and found him as unhappy as herself, which put her more at ease.

 

“My darling,” said Louis, putting his smile back on his face. “How fare you this afternoon?”

 

“It is the most beautiful day imaginable,” she said, and returned his smile brighter and more graceful, “and the garden so perfumed with flowers, I feel we are in Eden.”

 

“Quite,” said Louis. “Cardinal, won’t you say hello to the queen?”

 

Richelieu bowed low. “Your Majesty,” he said, as he did so. “You must have heard that we were just discussing how you are more lovely than the garden.”

 

“Discussing me?” said the queen, kindly. “I did not hear a word of it.”

 

This emboldened Richelieu, who stood straight and looked her in the eye.  “All to the good. We said that your white satin becomes you, and the sunlight also. You look a far cry indeed from the austerity of Spain.”

 

The smile stilled on Anne’s lips. “I have been a long while away from Spain,” she said coldly, “and my husband knows, I cannot abide black in the spring, on myself or my ladies, for I am no cleric. Good day, Cardinal.”

 

So saying, she walked on.

 

Louis scowled when she left. “That went awfully, Richelieu! She heard us, and then I said nothing to her, like a callow boy! It cannot continue, Cardinal! Call for M. de Tréville and his men, and say it is about the queen, he will understand me and come directly.”

 

“And Grisons?” said Richelieu.

 

“Grisons can rot or burn,” said Louis, “according to the Protestant taste. De Tréville! I must see de Tréville.”

 

* * *

 

M. Tréville understood the summons and arrived in short order with the familiar company, his Gascon protégé and three Musketeers well known to the king.

 

They bowed, and stood by while M. Tréville alone greeted Cardinal Richelieu.

 

“At last,” said the king. “The gentlemen I have awaited. You must help me, never have I been adrift as I am now, bewildered by a fellow creature, I cannot entice my wife to bed, and Richelieu is sadly unhelpful.”

 

The cardinal inclined his head when his name was mentioned, no matter in what tone. This made M. Tréville lift his own, and the king perceived that one had rendered power to the other.

 

“Your Majesty is right to seek the counsel of friends,” said M. Tréville. “And such are we. Tell me, what has happened to cause you this distress?”

 

The king sighed. “I have been endeavoring, with the help of the cardinal, to do as we did this Monday, and create a piece of theater where I speak charmingly to the queen. Each time it has been a failure, and then just an hour ago, walking in the garden, she overheard us and, I think, was much offended.”

 

“Offended, sire, how?”

 

“I had just finished saying to Richelieu, ‘the trouble is with the queen,’ and there she was like I had summoned her by thinking. I have no doubt she heard, and thinks me the worst of men.”

 

M. Tréville frowned. “It is possible she did not hear you, there is a breeze today. What said you next?”

 

“I called her my darling and asked after her health.”

 

“It is the proper form, so far,” said M. Tréville. “Athos, you have played the role of the queen for his majesty before. Resume it now, and we shall solve this dilemma as quickly as we are able.”

 

Athos let his suffering stare fall on his captain for an instant before he stepped forward.

 

“Advise me, though, or we will waste each other’s time,” said Louis. “Was it the proper greeting? Was I too affectionate, or worse, too distant?”

 

“Well, what said the queen next?” asked M. Tréville.

 

Louis seemed to think about it, and then answered. “She said, ‘It is the most beautiful day imaginable, and the garden so perfumed with flowers, I feel we are in Eden.’”

 

“A flirtation, if I am right, and a refined one. How did you answer?”

 

“I turned to Richelieu and said, ‘Cardinal, won’t you say hello to the queen?’ And then he did, and soon after she left. So I went wrong, but I do not see how.”  


“I have a guess,” said M. Tréville, “that it was your introduction of the cardinal to the conversation.”

 

“Then show me how it is done better,” said the king, impatiently, “so in the future I will know. How should I have answered her majesty?”

 

Bewildered by decorum, no one answered.

 

“France is in a sorry state when cavaliers cannot advise a man about how to seduce a woman! Will not one of you help me?” said the king, to the silence.

 

“M. Aramis,” said Cardinal Richelieu’s careful voice, “is famously adept at this persuasive art.”  


“Is he!” said Louis, and brightened at the prospect of an expert tutor.

 

“Truly,” the cardinal affirmed. “I have it on authority, both high and low.”

 

“Well sir,” said the king, as Aramis stepped forward, “I am most happy for your reputation, if I may benefit from it, and I am an eager student. Go on then, and seduce my wife!”

 

Aramis took a moment to recover, but Athos did not.

 

“I have just finished saying,” said Athos in his flat voice, “that it is the most beautiful day imaginable, and the garden so perfumed with flowers, I feel we are in Eden.”

 

Aramis sighed. “Surely, madam, we are not so innocent.”

 

Louis applauded. “Bravo! They say wit and blasphemy are temptations to women, and you have put them both together at once. But what if she does not mention Eden? I cannot imagine she will always be mentioning Eden.”

 

“The point is even simpler than that, Your Majesty,” said M. Tréville. “The trick of it is to address the queen, and herself alone, and not Cardinal Richelieu as you did.”

 

“But Richelieu was right there beside me.”

 

“Then ignore him, sire,” said Aramis, looking at the cardinal and not the king. Richelieu frowned.

 

“Ignore him,” said the king, thoughtfully.

 

“Just so. Whether you meet the queen in the presence of Cardinal Richelieu, or des Réaux, or even our mutual friend de Luynes, you must not turn to them when the queen speaks to you. You must dismiss or ignore them, or depend upon it, she will not make herself alone to you.”

 

Louis considered this advice with a finger on his lips. Then he laughed. “You are right, of course, and I thank you for your time! I was stupid to seek out a cleric to advise me about love when I should have sought a cavalier. Now off with you now, with the gratitude of your king!”

 

They bowed and left.

 

* * *

 

“It was incredible,” d’Artagnan told Constance that evening. “The king of France, and he needed to be told that the proper response to his wife’s good day is not, ‘Richelieu, say hello!’”

 

Constance shuddered. “That man makes any woman’s blood cold, and they say he is cruel to the queen.”

 

“I don’t doubt it,” said d’Artagnan. “He is more snake than man. It is because of him that I am clean-shaven, lest I see myself resemble him in the mirror!”

 

“Yes,” said Constance. “I’m very sure that is the reason.”

 

D’Artagnan looked at her. “It is,” he insisted.

 

“Did you learn anything?” Constance asked, and sat down beside with her sewing basket.

 

“Several things, I daresay. Did you know women are tempted by wit and blasphemy?”

 

“I did not,” said Constance. “Have you had occasion to try them?”

 

“I only just got home,” said d’Artagnan. “I will try them now. Madam, mortal will may choose equally between good and evil, without the efficacious grace of God, and two enamelers in competition with each other are having a _jeu d'émaux_. How do you feel, in the face of these seductions?”

 

Constance put a hand to her forehead. “I am unaffected.”

 

“Then you are the strongest of women,” said d’Artagnan with confidence, and kissed her hand.

 

   


 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. Charles de Luynes was like a couple years Out of Favor by the events of the plot but you may notice that all the musketeers canon is like not super scrupulous about history. De Luynes's main achievement was getting the king and queen to like each other enough 2 fuck  
> 2\. Beard poll: RT for Royale, fav for Imperial.  
> 3\. "Mortal will..." D'Artagnan's School of Pelagian Heresy  
> 4\. sorry about my fanfiction


End file.
